


A brief respite

by Gomboc123



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, FMA Secret Santa 2018, Underage Drinking, not that europeans care about that tho...., victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:04:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gomboc123/pseuds/Gomboc123
Summary: For one night, she thinks to herself, for one night, she’ll allow herself to ignore the obligations she’s had since she was a child, to her parents and to the crown. Just this once, she’ll do something for herself.Royai Victorian AU.





	A brief respite

**Author's Note:**

> For @hawkai on tumblr for FMA Secret Santa 2018. I'm sorry this was so late, a lot of unexpected personal stuff happened over the holidays, and it left me with almost no time to write. You mentioned liking Victorian AUs with Princess Riza, and so I decided to go that route with your gift. I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments!

“Where are we going,” Riza calls out to the boy holding her hand as their feet  _ click clack _ against uneven cobblestone, slick from the day’s earlier rain. Her heeled shoes have difficulty finding purchase on the road, and with the speed Mister Mustang pulls her along, all she can do is squeeze his hand and hope it’s enough to catch her if she slips. 

“We’re almost there,” She hears the reply come from his mouth, but he doesn’t grace her with one of his smiles, too busy attempting to maneuver the two of them along the road. 

God, she hopes they’re almost there. Being out in the open has her stomach in knots, twisting painfully tighter and tighter the longer she’s in her uncharacteristically drab dress, brushing up against strangers.  In all her sixteen years of life, she cannot recall a single time when she’s left the palace without an entourage. She’s with an escort, and her mind knows it, but she can’t help but feel uneasy at the fact that said escort is a wiry boy as opposed to a team of armed guards, specially trained to help her keep her personal space and sanity.

Lost in the thought of her guards with stern faces and rigid posture, Riza almost doesn’t notice her companion stopping in his tracks in front of an old town house. “We’re here,” he tells her, and gives her cold fingers a squeeze before letting them go and depositing her hand back to her side. She takes it in her other and fidgets, running her slender fingers over themselves over and over again as Mister Mustang knocks on the door they’ve arrived in front of. It’s thick and wooden, but she only knows so due to the cracking and peeling paint that looks yellow now, but might have been a clean white once. The building the door is attached to is made of crumbling and pock-marked brick- a far cry from the pristine stone her castle is constructed of. Inside, Riza knows her companion would never lead her somewhere unsafe, but the grime covering the street she’s on and the building she’s about to enter fill her with instinctual unease. 

Following three sharp knocks, the wooden door creaks open on rusted hinges, and a plump woman with long, dark hair and a pipe in one hand opens it, “What’ve we got here, Roy Boy?”

“This is my… friend, Riza,” Mustang gestures to Riza behind him, and she’s taken aback by the sudden use of her nickname in place of Princess Elizabeth or Your Highness. Despite the fact that she’d told him of the nickname before they snuck out of the castle that evening, Riza can’t remember ever hearing it spoken aloud in the low timbre of Mister Mustang’s voice. It sends heat through her cheeks, and it’s enough to snap her out of her thoughts long enough to step forward and muster a soft greeting to the woman scrutinizing her, taking a drag out of her pipe and blowing it into the evening air next to Riza’s head. 

“Well what are you two waiting for out here? I can’t keep heating the outside, firewood costs money you know,” She gestures to the door, and Mister Mustang grabs Riza’s hand once more to lead her into the brick building. Once the door shuts behind them, the woman turns, and begins down a staircase to the left, “You’re a bit early for any of the real fun to start, but I’ve still cracked open the day’s first barrels and bottles. Help yourself, Roy Boy, you know your way around the bar. Make sure your little date gets something nice too. I’ll be generous tonight. Everything’s on the house.”

“If you think I’m courting her, then why do you insist on using that terrible old nickname, Madame?” At the angle Riza follows him, Riza can’t see her companion’s face, but from the tone of his voice, she knows he’s pouting. Her face flushes again upon remembering their intertwined hands, and she lets go.

“Since when are you allowed to talk back to me?” the Madame throws her head back and looks at the pair descending the stair with her. She smirks and reaches the bottom level, “Welcome.”

“Okay, okay, you can get back to your business now,” Mustang shoos the Madame away and she just chuckles, leaving Riza and her now-frazzled companion alone. He turns to her and rubs the back of his head, “Sorry about her, she enjoys giving me a hard time, Your Highness.”

There it is, “It’s alright,” she waves her hand in the air, “But aren’t we supposed to try and keep my lineage a secret?”

“Shit! Wait, shoot,” He runs a hand through his unruly, black mop.

“It’s no worries, Mister Mustang,” It’s so strange to see him flustered. At the palace she’d only ever seen him with a calm, confident expression on his face. As one of the servants, he isn’t expected to show any emotion. His role is to silently fetch things and present them to her, to tidy her chambers so quietly she doesn’t know he’s there, or do any assorted work her maids cannot complete by themselves. In the palace, he has no room to be flustered, because there is absolutely no room for mistakes. She knows the overwhelming pressure all too well herself. But here, she sees Mister Mustang bathed in orange candlelight, cheeks aflame and  _ cursing _ in her presence. She wants to pinch herself to reassure her that everything is real. 

The divide between what life is like at the palace and what lies outside, however, grows deeper when she continues, “Just keep calling me Riza. Nobody will make the connection to  _ Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth Hawkeye  _ that way.”

“Alright, Riza,” Her name slips through his lips differently this time. It is natural, obviously he’s said it multiple times before this moment, but his voice is tentative, belying the cautiousness of a man dipping his toes in the ocean to see if it’s too cold and too deep for him to keep his head above it.

“Let’s leave the titles at the palace, yeah?”

“Yeah, let’s,” He smiles, deciding that he’s comfortable swimming in her ocean, “In that case, let’s leave ‘Mister Mustang’ there too. Call me Roy here.”

“I’ll try,” Riza returns his warm smile, and with that conversation over with, she turns her attention to the room around her. Exposed brick walls surround them on three sides, most likely four, but it’s difficult for Riza to tell for sure, as the fourth wall is lined with shelf after shelf of bottles of various liquors. There’s a long counter in front of the wall, lined with chairs, as well as multiple other tables around the room a few of which are occupied by tired-looking men already nursing glasses of amber-colored liquid. The back of the room, opposite the side with the spirits, is an open area with no seating, and a raised platform that Riza quickly recognizes as a poor man’s version of a stage. 

“It looks like we’re a little early for that,” Roy’s voice sounds from her right, and when Riza turns her gaze toward him, she sees his eyes trained on the same setup as hers were, “Don’t worry though,” His hand draws a silver pocketwatch from his side, and flicks it open before once again drawing his gaze to Riza once more, “We should only have to wait another half hour or so.”

Half an hour, “And what will we do before then?” She asks, hoping he has something up his sleeve. Exhilarating as it is to be with him, she feels the dark walls of the small room and the pressure they exert around her. Everything is so different from her home, and she knows the point of the evening is to get away from it, but parts of her heart yearn for the familiarity of the those high, pastel colored walls with gilt edges. 

Sensing her unease, Roy slinks around to the back of the bar and plucks a dark bottle from the extensive library of alcohol, “I figured we could have a small drink to begin with,” with his other hand, he grabs two glasses by their thin stems, “None of this stuff is quite as expensive as whatever you have at your… home, but it’ll do the trick,” He pours deep, red wine into each glass and after corking the bottle once more, he hands a glass to Riza and walks back out to stand by her side. 

“Thank you Mist- um, Roy,” She runs her pointer finger along the rim of the glass and swirls the burgundy liquid so that it leaves a thin sheen along the inside. Gently raising the glass to her face, she wafts the scent of the wine, noting the sweetness of that particular variety. When she breathes the scent in once more, she notices Roy, head tipped back and smile on his face, quickly gulping down the contents of his glass. Her face grows hot once more at the realization that she hasn’t been doing a great job pretending to be a commoner that night, and forgoes the rest of her high-society wine-tasting ritual for an immediate mouthful of the drink, “Mmm,” she hums, and Roy is broken from his trance to look expectantly at her, “This is delicious, I’ve never tried wine like this before.”

“It’s great, isn’t it? Madame makes it herself,” He uncorks the bottle and refills his glass as well as Riza’s, “I don’t plan on drinking this entire thing right now, but this should be enough before the band gets here.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The two linger by the bar counter, taking sips of their drinks, until a group of people walk in and move instruments onto the rickety, old stage in the back of the room. While the musicians work, both glasses of wine empty, and now, feeling a bit warmer, the knots in Riza’s stomach begin to untangle themselves. 

Eventually, the small stage fills up with people, beaten-up instruments in their battered hands. An old-looking piano sits next to the stage, and Riza realizes her drink and conversation with Roy kept her attention from the musicians rolling the large object into the room. Under her breath, she mutters, and her companion lifts a brow. 

“Never seen a piano before?” In the bottom of his glass, mere drops of wine sit, and he tips them back into his mouth.

“You’ve seen me play the piano before during lessons. You know I know what a piano is,” Her glass is fuller, but she follows suit and tips the remainder of the wine into her own mouth, feeling the alcohol coat her tingling throat, “If anything, I should be surprised you know what it is.”

“You wound me,” Roy’s hand, now free of a wine glass, moves to his heart in mock-pain, but once a smirk winds its way onto his lips, it lowers to his hip, “But you should know I also took lessons as a child.”

“Oh did you?”

“Well I was fortunate enough to grow up under the care of a woman who didn’t force me into the coal mines at the age of four. I had to find other ways to spend my time,” He takes a step toward the stage, and Riza places her empty glass on the counter next to his, “In fact, this is what I wanted to show you.”

The pair make their way to the opposite end of the room, where Roy greets everyone tuning their worn instruments. One boy about his age pulls him into an embrace, and Roy gives him a pat on the back. With another, they exchange some words, and burst into laughter at the obvious inside joke. Riza stands to the edge, the warmness and familiarity of their banter fading, replaced by the increasingly common sensation of being terribly out of place. Without Roy close enough to touch or feel the heat from, her fingers fidget with one another again, cold and completely failing to occupy her mind. 

“Riza,” Roy’s voice is a comfort when it returns to her, and she smiles at the now- six faces smiling at her expectantly. Instinctually, she gives a small curtsey, the motion fluid and practiced since before she could run unassisted. When her head returns to meet their gaze, she sees Roy chuckling, and the other boys on stage fumble through their own versions of a bow. All of them botch it terribly, and it causes a chuckle to escape Riza’s lips as well. She  _ is _ terribly out of place amongst these people, but she trusts Roy enough to believe the experience won’t be terrible for her. 

“Now Riza, do you want to see what I really brought you here for?” Roy steps from the low stage, and upon hearing her agreement, leads her to the closest table, “All you have to do is watch now.”

With a flourish, he turns away from her and sits down on the creaking bench of the old piano next to the stage, placing thin fingers on cracked, yellowing keys. All the other musicians take his cue, and begin sounding their instruments.

An upbeat melody fills Riza’s ears, and though the piano Roy’s fingers move deftly across is old, crystal-clear notes sound from it, echoing through the walls of the small room and amplifying better than the gilt-trimmed music halls of Riza’s youth. As he plays, Roy doesn’t spare a smile her way; the corners of his mouth still curl upward, but his black eyes are snapped shut, head bobbing along to the melody his mind weaves. 

As it had multiple times that night, Riza’s heart rate increases, pounding against the steel boning in her corset and sending waves through her body. When Roy plays the piano, it’s like a switch is flipped in his mind, allowing him to shut the outside world out, and focus solely on the music. He hits every note with practiced precision, and the smile on his face is evidence that he enjoys doing so. His feet move from pedal to pedal with ease, and when they aren’t being used, they tap along on the ground to the rhythm. It’s amazing to watch his body sway, loose white shirt catching the air in the room and the hems of each pant leg riding up to reveal tall socks underneath Roy’s dingy brown shoes. 

It’s mesmerizing to watch. 

Every single ball or concert or private show she’s been to, the pianist blessing her ears with music had never been this animated, so in sync with the music and their body and their soul. There’s a certain stiffness to concert pianists, an invisible barrier preventing them from letting themselves get lost on or carried away by their music. And never had any of them dared to play something with so much fiddle and drums and pure, unbridled fun. 

She can’t help but tap her fingers on the table she sits at, watching as others pour into the cellar bar and clap, move their bodies along to the tune. The smile on Roy’s face widens, and opens to reveal his teeth, and prompted by the growing attention, his movements become more exaggerated and his fingers move twice as fast, hitting more notes than Riza ever thought was possible in such a short span of time. Everything crescendos, and Riza falls into a trance until the crescendo dwindles, and the band finishes its song. 

Whoops and hollers from the crowd resound, echoing through the brick room, and Riza wishes she had enough comfort in the environment to yell with them. Instead, she claps, elegantly as she was always taught, but allowing her face to exhibit how elated she feels. Roy, now breathing heavier, draws his deft fingers from the piano. When he opens his eyes once more, they blink once, but immediately find Riza’s, and her heart crescendos like his music did seconds ago. 

When the applause dies down, he swings his legs around the piano bench, and stands. Riza does the same, and she meets him coming up to her table, as breathless as she is. 

“What did you think?”

“I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“Interesting. I’ve never heard anything like it from you either,” His smile turns devious, and Riza shoots him a look, wishing her upbringing didn’t prevent her from landing an annoyed punch to his arm. She can’t bring herself to be so blatantly rude to him. Not yet, at least. 

“Is that the only song you’re going to play for me tonight?” Unfortunately for Riza, she isn’t as good at hiding her eagerness.

“Probably not, but I thought we might want to enjoy a little music together before I step away for another song,” Roy watches as another man takes his place on the piano bench, and more music fills the air of the cellar, moving it around in pleasant waves, “I know you’ve been taught to ballroom dance, but I think I should show you how anyone who knows how to have fun does it.”

“Excuse me?” Riza exaggerates her insult, and Roy merely rolls his eyes and holds his left hand out.

“You enjoyed peasant music, how bad can the dancing that goes with it be?” Riza takes his hand in her right, and places her other on his shoulder as she knows how. His right hand slides to her hip, resting atop the spot where her corset widens, and she swears she can feel the touch through the countless layers of fabric covering her skin. 

“Well this could go very terribly if I don’t have a good instructor,” Riza’s fingers curl around his shoulders, and with a fiddle sounding off in the background, she and Roy begin swaying.  Together, she and Roy swing from side to side, joined by others near the stage who are through with their beers, “Now might be a good time to explain what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well for now, we just move along with the music,” Roy moves one of his feet backward, and Riza, like any good dance partner, moves hers forward to match. She expects to move her other foot to the side in a waltz, but instead, Roy lifts his other foot and steps forward toward her, turning ninety degrees as he does, “You seemed to have that basic step down, so I thought I’d add something a little harder.”

“You were supposed to tell me what to do before we did it,” She murmurs, thinking about how easily his dirtied foot could have come down on top of hers.

“Well,” Tightening his grip on her hand, he repeats his steps from before, “It seemed simple enough for you to understand.”

His response is met with a roll of Riza’s eyes, and he laughs it off, pulling her closer to him, “I’ll let you know before we try and of the crazy stuff,” While the pair had been moving slowly to every other beat of the song before, Roy tugs on her hand and quickens their pace. 

They twirl around other couples and Riza suddenly becomes acutely aware of her position. Couples. The woman from earlier, the Madame, had teased at it, and Roy had rebuffed her and laughed the notion off. Now, on the other hand, he leans into her. His smile, which was brilliant during his performance earlier, grows even wider, and his piercing, black eyes meet hers in a way that makes her heart flutter. 

He doesn’t mind presenting themselves as a couple.

And the thought terrifies her, because she realizes the only thing stopping her from feeling the same nonchalance is her lingering obligation to her royal lineage. The well-instilled feeling that she shouldn’t be enjoying a dance with a poor nobody in a dingy cellar near the slums. Not Roy’s hand on her hip, not his hot breath, or the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles at her and drives her heart wild. 

She has to avert her gaze to the floor in order to calm her hammering heart. The corset keeping her waist in is expensive and sturdy, made of steel and layers of stiffened linen with strong silk threaded through silver eyelets, but Riza still feels as though her heart will burst out of it at any second. 

However, she knows she can’t lose her composure now, not in front of a room of people and certainly not in front of Roy, lest he decide the evening is too much for her to handle and chooses return her to her gated palace too soon. Her eyes return to his, which are tinged with concern, but she squeezes his hand in reassurance and continues the spinning dance they’re caught in. 

He squeezes her hand back, having wordlessly understood the message, “Are you ready for something else?”

“If you walk me through it, Roy,” Her own hot breath hits his thin, white shirt, and the fabric flutters from the sound of his name.

“In a couple of beats, let go of my shoulder and spin out,” His hand loosens from her waist, “I’ll pull you back in after. Sound good?” 

“Sounds good.”

“Great,” He smiles, “Three.. Two… One…”

“Now.”

With a deep breath, her hand releases his shoulder, and she moves her feet deftly away from Roy, keeping contact only through the fingers in her right hand and his left. All layers of her dress fan out as she spirals, and she can feel a cool breeze hit her ankles, a relief from the warmth in the bar and in her chest. Soon, her arm straightens, and she glances at Roy expectantly. 

He simply nods, and she returns to him, spinning now with practiced elegance. With his right hand, Roy reaches out and stops her hip from moving any farther toward him, but her upper body does not stop, and her chest hits his softly, bouncing off, but not before she feels electricity pass through him into her. 

“Sorry,” She is breathless, and her hand trembles ever so slightly as it returns to his shoulder.

“No worries,” He reassures her, and moving his hand from her hip to near the thinnest point of her waist, “For your first time, I’d say you were pretty good. You managed not to step on my feet a single time.”

The two return to the swaying they had done before, but it’s different this time. Riza’s collision with his chest brought them closer than before, and she swears she can still feel the heat from his chest, as if there were a candle burning inside just for her. She can smell him now, a vague, musky scent masked by lavender and starch from his white shirt.  She breathes it in, relishing what she had only ever gotten minuscule hints of before. 

The proximity feel s so natural, so right, that Riza can’t help but lose herself in the rest of the song as the band finishes and starts a new one. A slower one. 

Soft notes float from the piano now, and the violin, once used for staccato beats, plays long, drawn out notes that wind themselves around the dancing pair in tendrils, pulling them closer and closer until Riza can’t take it anymore. 

For one night, she thinks to herself, for one night, she’ll allow herself to ignore the obligations she’s had since she was a child, to her parents and to the crown. Just this once, she’ll do something for herself. 

With a deep inhale, Riza lets the prim, detached, royal face she’d been clinging onto all night go, and she lets herself fall back into Roy’s chest. He lets out a small exclamation, but Riza moves her hand down and around so that it rests in the small of his back, and he knows this isn’t a mistake caused by exhaustion or the wine they’d both had earlier. The hand on her waist wraps further around, and their embrace is completed. Music still sounds through the room, but Roy and Riza stop their circular dance and return to simply swaying, just enjoying the warmth shared between them and something unspoken that neither of them is quite ready to breach yet.

And they don’t need to breach it. Not yet, at least. Right now, they don’t need to worry about it. Because here they no longer need to be a princess and her silent servant. Just Riza and Roy.


End file.
